When this stupid phrase, derived from I do not know where—a Palais Royal farce, I believe—had once got into my head, it was impossible for me to get rid of it, and I felt bursts of wild merriment welling up to my lips.
“Calm yourself, Madame; calm yourself.”
“How can I, Georges? Forgive me, my dear boy.”
“Can you doubt me, Madame?”
I felt that “Madame” was somewhat cold, but I was afraid of making Madame de C. seem old by calling her “mother.” I knew her to be somewhat of a coquette.
“Oh, I do not doubt your affection; go, my dear boy, go and make her happy; yes, oh, yes! Fear nothing on my account; I am strong.”
Nothing is more unbearable than emotion when one does not share it. I murmured “Mother!” feeling that after all she must appreciate such an outburst; then approaching, I kissed her, and made a face in spite of myself—such a salt and disagreeable flavor had been imparted to my mother-in-law’s countenance by the tears she had shed.
CHAPTER XII. THE HONEYMOON
It had been decided that we should pass the first week of our honeymoon at Madame de C.‘s chateau. A little suite of apartments had been fitted up for us, upholstered in blue chintz, delightfully cool-looking. The term “cool-looking” may pass here for a kind of bad joke, for in reality it was somewhat damp in this little paradise, owing to the freshly repaired walls.